The Workhouse Boy

By james J. Deeney

A Young Adult historical novel Ireland, 1870s. Times were hard and life was grim in those days. If you had no work, you lost your home. If you had nowhere to live, you went into the workhouse – or emigrated. This is the story about the brothers Jake and Eamon Miller and their family, buffeted about in those times of hardship... An early version of this novel was read to schoolchildren in Londonderry and the teacher told the author that she’d never had such a good strong reaction from her children over a story. “This is a Dickensian story of tenant farmers, father, mother, and sons, in Northern Ireland. When one son emigrates, the rest are unable to continue the farm, and are evicted by their landlord. After fruitless efforts at begging in the streets of Derry, the three end up in a workhouse (poorhouse). This is run by a villainous ‘Master’ and his sadistic underlings. Boys, girls, men, and women are housed separately in primitive conditions and forbidden to mix. Ultimate punishment is solitary confinement in a ‘punishment room’ without facilities. The story centers on the boy, Jake, a feisty kid

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Scoltock
• Release date: Mar 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310151460

Book preview

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The Workhouse Boy

James J. Deeney

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the permission from the author, James J. Deeney, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

I wish to see the Poorhouse looked to with dread by our labouring classes and the reproach for being an inmate of it extend downward from father to son. Let the poor see and feel that their parish, although it will not allow them to perish through absolute want is yet the hardest taskmaster, the closest pay-master and the most harsh, unkind friend they can apply to. George Nicholls (1822)

Part One

Emigration

The day his brother, Eamon, told him he was emigrating to America, Jake thought his whole world had collapsed, for he idolised his big brother.

That day they were working in one of the long potato fields that ran down almost to the banks of the River Foyle, a quarter mile wide, brackish, fast flowing river that wound its way through Derry to Lough Foyle and onto the Atlantic Ocean. It was a dull end of September day in Derry 1871 and Jake and his brother were gathering potatoes behind their father who was driving old Tom, a brown and white horse up the muddy field. The sharp edge of the plough tore into the rich soil with a slushing sound spewing the white clay spotted potatoes to the top. It was back breaking work but the brothers were well used to it. Jake, though only ten years old was tall for his age. His brother was well built and a head and a half taller. Both brothers had thick, brown curly hair, short stubby noses and dark brown eyes. Clusters of freckles, evidence of that beautiful summer, covered Jake's red face.

Emigratin', Jake exclaimed almost stopping.

His brother frowned and nodded to his father who had his back to them, silently telling Jake to keep his voice down.

But why? whispered Jake.

Eamon shrugged. There’s a whole lot of reasons, Jake. I've made up me mind.

Jake's heart pounded against his ribs. Was it true? Was his brother really emigrating? He looked at his father's back as he whispered, What about Ann? He hoped she was against it. Ann was Eamon's wife and they were expecting their first baby.

Ann will go where I go, answered Eamon, wiping sweat from his mud-caked brow. He looked at his father's back again. Jake, he whispered. Don't say anythin' to the oul fella or me Ma. I'm fer tellin' them the night.

It was true then, thought Jake unable to stop a tear running down his face.

Realising his young brother was upset Eamon whispered,

Jake look I... I have to go. I...

Will you two stop yappin' back there, growled Da, turning. We need to get this crop gathered in by the morra. McConnell's expectin' the spuds bagged and stacked ready fer market by the end of the week.

Charles McConnell owned the field they were harvesting and several other fields nearby. He also owned the cottage Jake and his family lived in.

The Miller family consisted of Patrick the father, a tall thin man with greying brown hair and a haggard face; Mary, his wife a tiny slender woman with dark hair and eyes to match. Eamon's wife, who lived with them was a pleasant round-faced girl with fair hair and blue eyes. Mr. Miller with his two sons worked six days a week for the farmer. In return the Millers were paid one pound per week and free rent of the cottage. Once Jake's father had asked McConnell for an increase in wage but McConnell a gruff, burly man told him that the right to live in the cottage could be deducted from their wages. Jake's father had never again asked for an increase.

Sorry Da, said Eamon.

As they worked their way up the field Eamon thought about Ann and their decision to emigrate. She had argued at first saying that his father couldn't work the fields on his own. Besides his mother would miss them. Jake would miss them. How could they cope? Don't ye think I know all that Ann, he had cried. But we have to think about our lives now with the wain comin’. We can't live me Ma and Da's lives. Ah, Look Ann we'll do all right in America. I know we will. I know it. Sure when we get settled we can send fer them. I know Da will be against us goin' but he'll see reason.

By the end of the week Ann was as convinced as he was that they should emigrate.

The following week they had walked into Derry and booked their passage. Now they had to tell Eamon's parents.

****

While they worked the rest of the day in the big field Jake could hardly think of anything else. His brother was emigrating and for the first time in his young life he dreaded going back to the cottage.

As they walked down the long fuchsia-hedged lane to the cottage that lay in the lea of a low hill, Jake listened to his father and brother.

We should have all the spuds well in by four o' clock the morra, said Eamon.

Aye and in good time too, said his father studying the sky. The rain'll be here soon. God the nights are fallin' fast aren't they? Winter's just around the corner. I can feel it in my bones already.

How's yer back the day Da? asked Eamon.

His father took a few seconds before answering. Gran’... gran’.

Jake knew Da's back was far from grand. He'd listened to his moans of pain the night before after Eamon and Ann had gone out. Every evening, Ma massaged Da's back with a liniment she had concocted from flowers and axle grease scraped from the hub of a broken cart wheel that lay out in the back shed.

Changing the subject Da said, I'm famished. There's nothin' like good hard sweat to work up an appetite, eh, son. He slapped Eamon on the back then pushed the rickety gate open.

Jake hesitated, watching his brother open the lower half of the front door and go inside. He sighed. He was dreading dinner.

****

When he entered the cottage, he saw Eamon kiss Ann and smile. He feared that there wouldn’t be any smiles before this night was out. Ma was already dishing out stew into wooden bowls. The oak table where they sat had been in the cottage when their parents had moved in. The top surface was scrubbed smooth though one of the legs was short and rotted; a flat rock was wedged underneath the leg to keep the table level.

Around the table sat four stools and a jug of cold spring well water sat in the centre. Wooden spoons, one cup, two mugs and a crockery jar were the only other dishes.Jake's usually ate sitting on a straw-filled cushion by the fire and as he carried his bowl of stew to the fireplace he saw Eamon give Ann a look. Ann smiled at Jake as he passed but he noticed her eyes hadn't the bright happiness in them they'd had that Sunday when she told them she was pregnant.

Dinner was almost over before Ma noticed that Jake had hardly touched his food. Jake, son, what's the matter? Aren't ye feelin' well? It's most unusual for you not to be finished long before everyone else! You love your food so.

Aye, Ma, said Jake. I'm all right. He glanced at Eamon.

Don't waste yer food, son, said Da. There are some who'd nearly kill ye fer what's in that bowl.

Jake frowned. What do ye mean, Da?

The Workhouse, that's what I mean. There are many livin' in there who are half-starved and half dead who'd give anythin' fer a good bowl of stew.

The Workhouse. It was the first time he'd heard the word. Is that a house were they work, Da?

His father looked at Ma and laughed. She smiled. All of a sudden, Da grew serious. Naw, son not where they work, well they do. Ach, it's a terrible place where unfortunates end up that have nowhere to live or food to eat. Count yersel lucky ye've a hard workin' family around ye and enough food to eat.

Jake looked at Eamon then back at his father. Da, he asked. Do you think we'll end up in the Workhouse?

Not likely, son. We're lucky enough to have a roof over our heads...

Lucky! exclaimed Eamon. How's that, Da? We're only allowed to live in this cottage because McConnell owns us...

Owns us! exclaimed Da, his face darkening with anger. No one owns a Miller. Remember that, boy. No one!

McConnell owns our home. We've nothin'... only the work, snapped Eamon.

Jake's heartbeat quickened. He could feel the tension building already.

Nothin'! said Father, raising his hand to indicate everyone. We've each other haven't we?

Eamon gave Ann a look again.

Jake saw Ma frown. She had caught the look that had passed between them.

What is it, Eamon? she asked. Ma could always tell when there was something wrong. Jake had heard Da once say she had the sixth sense.

Eamon looked at Ann again.

It's... it's... Philadelphia, he blurted out.

Now it was their father who frowned. Don't tell me yer goin' to start on about America again. I thought all that talk was over and done with.

Ach, Da, said Eamon rising. Ye'd better know now. Ann and I have decided. We're emigratin' to Philadelphia next week. We've already booked our passage.

Jake's heart pounded against his ribs like small explosions when Da suddenly rose from the table. The stool he had been sitting on skittered across the floor and hit the wall. Philadelphia! he shouted. That's all it is these days. If it was such a great place there'd be no one left in Derry. They'd all be out there, in bloody, Philadelphia...

Paddy, began Mary.

Da, don't ye understand why Ann and me have to go? said Eamon. What's here fer us? Look at you, me Ma, all of us. We work McConnell's farm six days a week and what have we got to show fer it? Nothin'. Bloody nothin'. McConnell owns us. Aye, Da he owns us. We're his slaves to do with what he wants. We own nothin'. He only has to threaten us with eviction and we do anythin' he wants. We own nothin'! He looked around the room. We don't even own this... this hovel we call a home.

Eamon, exclaimed Ma. It's God's will we live this way.

God's will, snapped Eamon. Ach, Ma catch yersel on.

Jake gasped. He had never heard Eamon raise his voice to Ma or turn a word in her mouth.

Ma, said Eamon lowering his voice. It's God's will that me and Ann are goin' to Philadelphia. In America we have a chance to better oursel's. In Philadelphia there's opportunity, work- aye and plenty of it- and good money fer them that are willin' to work hard to get it. Philadelphia is-

Enough! roared Da, banging the table with his fist. The cup and a bowl bounced to the floor. I don't want to hear any more about Philadelphia! No more! Do ye hear me? He glared at Eamon.

Paddy, Eamon's right, said Ann quietly. "Look at us. We barely have enough to eat. I want my baby to have a better life than the one